


Crime and Punishment and - Wait, What Are You Doing?

by Ange_de_la_Mort



Category: Les Misérables (2012)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Dubious Consent, Identity Porn, M/M, Madeleine Era, Pillory, Public Humiliation, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-30
Updated: 2013-05-30
Packaged: 2017-12-13 11:44:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/823936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ange_de_la_Mort/pseuds/Ange_de_la_Mort
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To receive punishment for his misdeeds is a good thing, an honorable thing. Even if this punishment consists of being locked in a pillory in front of the whole town. What happens, though, when people can do to Javert whatever they wish to, is not honorable at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crime and Punishment and - Wait, What Are You Doing?

**Author's Note:**

> For [this](http://makinghugospin.livejournal.com/11667.html?thread=2587027#t2587027) kink meme prompt

He had seen this room so very often by now, had entered it daily, knew every nook and cranny, every single speck of dust. This room shouldn’t be impressive or intimidating in any way. Still, it was the mayor’s office. To be fair, the mayor, too, was neither a very intimidating man - impressive, yes, intimidating, no - at least as long as nobody got on the wrong side of him. Or when someone committed a crime. Like Javert.  
  
“A mistake,” Madeleine corrected him for the third time.  
  
“A crime. I insist, Monsieur le Maire. You should not whitewash this issue.”  
  
“And you _insist_ on a punishment?”  
  
“Dishonourable discharge is the least I should face.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“To publicize my crime. To make an example of me.”  
  
The mayor sighed, arranged the papers on his desk again and again into neat little piles to busy his hands and not have to look at Javert. Well, to be honest, Javert would not want to look at himself, too. His shame was too big. “I cannot discharge you because you _made a mistake_.”  
  
“Monsieur le Maire,” he began, but closed his mouth when Madeleine held up a hand.  
  
“To interrupt a superior is the first step of a revolt, Javert. We have to work on that, I suppose.” He smiled when he said this, and Javert felt his face flush. “I will not discharge you,” he repeated once more. Then sighed again. “But I will punish you. Because you insist.”  
  
“Because it is the right thing to do!”  
  
“What did I say about interruptions?”  
  
He bit his lower lip, lowered his gaze. “My apologies, Monsieur le Maire. It won’t happen again.”  
  
“Oh, of course. I’ll make sure it won’t.” Madeleine rose from his seat, bracing his hands against the surface of the desk. “Your punishment will take place in public. Everyone, who wishes to do so, will be able to see you, Javert, will be able to see just _what_ your bad habit of drawing overhasty conclusions has _rewarded you with_. I will make an example of you, because it is what you want, even if it is not what I want. Agreed?”  
  
“It is not my place to agree or not.”  
  
“Javert.” An exasperated sound. Dissatisfied. Disappointed. Javert clamped his mouth shut. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t what he wanted. He didn’t want to disappoint the mayor, to further humiliate them both. “Are we agreed?”  
  
“Yes, Monsieur le Maire.”  
  
Madeleine folded his arms behind his back, nodded to himself. “Tomorrow morning before dawn. Right here. Good day, Monsieur l’Inspecteur.”  
  
And with this, the discussion was over and Javert halfway honorably thrown out of the office.  
  
-  
  
He spent the rest of the day thinking, wondering and fearing what Madeleine was going to do to him. Of course he was sure the mayor would do the right thing, would choose the correct, the most fitting punishment for him. Still, he failed to understand which kind of punishment needed a day of preparation.  
  
Maybe - maybe, most likely, yes actually - was it the uncertainty of being forced to wait that robbed him of his sleep. Maybe - no, not maybe, surely - it granted him a certain nervousness, which made him get dressed and turn up in front of the mayor’s factory much too early, made him pace restlessly in front of the building.  
  
This made him look - most likely - very miserable and tired in contrast to Madeleine, who arrived about thirty minutes before dawn, who rounded the corner whistling and very well rested. He greeted Javert with a smile and said: “You are early. So eager to get punished?”  
  
“Every honest man should be eager to pay for his crimes,” he answered. It seemed to be a not-so-good answer, for the smile on Madeleine’s lips vanished. Why? What had he done wrong? It shouldn’t be like this, the mayor shouldn’t have any reason to be disappointed, he didn’t _want_ to disappoint him, didn’t want to embarrass him. His lips turned into a thin line and he looked aside.  
  
“Close your eyes,” Madeleine ordered, and Javert blinked in confusion, looked at the man, at his face that betrayed no emotion and at his hands that held a piece of cloth, which he slid through his fingers. Madeleine did not repeat his request. It wasn’t necessary. Javert obeyed and shivered as the cool, rough cloth covered his eyes. He dipped his head a little, so that Madeleine could knot the cloth behind his head.  
  
His fingers twitched, he resisted the urge to move them to the blindfold. A bitter kind of excitement simmered in his gut like a small fire as Madeleine closed a hand around his arm - steady and firm and soothing - and then he steered him through the quiet streets of Montreuil. Javert did not ask where they were going, did not ask what Madeleine was going to do. He trusted him blindly, knew he deserved everything that was going to happen. At the same time, he knew the mayor would not be unnecessarily cruel, would not feel any kind of personal pleasure in punishing him. If he were a lesser man, Javert thought, he would torture him, let him beg, humiliate him only for his own pleasure.  
  
Like this, though, the only shame and humiliation was the one Javert already felt - and for which he had to repent.  
  
-  
  
In the beginning, he tried to remember the way they went. Tried to memorize which corners they rounded, where they turned, tried to listen to sounds and locate their surroundings. However, due to the early hours of morning, there were no people on the streets, there were no clues that could have helped him. Which meant he could only trust the guiding hand on his arm, could only trust Madeleine who held him close, who took care that Javert did not trip or fall.  
  
“Do you trust everyone like this?”  
  
“Of course not.”  
  
“Why me?”  
  
 _Because you are my superior. Because you are as loyal to the law as I am. Because you are a good man._ “You would not do anything unethical.”  
  
“Because I would not use your momentary weakness against you?”  
  
“Well, why should you?”  
  
Madeleine kept silent and Javert did as well. The mayor steered him a few more steps forward, then he stopped. The grip around Javert’s arm grew tighter. But only for a second, then his hand slid over the material of his greatcoat to Javert’s shoulders and his chest. Underneath the blindfold, Javert rose his eyebrows, did not protest, however, when Madeleine opened the buttons, made the heavy cloth fall off his shoulders. “No objections, Inspector? I am effectively stripping you, after all,” he asked as he removed Javert’s greatcoat completely.  
  
“Do I have a reason to object?” he asked, shivering slightly in the cold. “I only object to not knowing where we are.”  
  
“Get on your knees and guess.”  
  
Javert hesitated, then knelt down, noticed the cobbled pavement.  
  
“Reach out in front of you.”  
  
“Monsieur has a penchant for games, I see,” he said and did as told. His fingers slid over wood and when he recognized the shape of the construction, he jerked back.  
  
“I understand you have found out where we are.”  
  
His mouth was dry. He cleared his troath. “Obviously.” A pillory. The only pillory in the city could be found at the square, where he was more used as decoration than as an instrument of punishment. “How long … ” _How long do you want me to stay here? How long do you want me to endure this humiliation? How long do I deserve?_  
  
“Until noon.”  
  
“Six hours,” he whispered. Six hours of exposure to the people’s eyes, six hours of dishonour and embarrassment and shame. He could do six hours. It was only fair.  
  
“Is it too much for you?”  
  
Javert shook his head, put his shaking hands through the metal openings. In Toulon, they’d had a pillory. There. the prisoners had to endure whole days in the icy cold or scorching heat. Six hours were merciful. Just like Monsieur le Maire.  
  
A lock snapped shut, and Javert flinched backward once more, but found out quickly he could not move his hands, for they were imprisoned by solid wood and even more solid iron. He licked his dry lips. “The blindfold?”  
  
“Will stay. It is enough if they see you. You need not see them.”  
  
And he would not been able to ever look them in the eye again if he were to recognize any of them again later. Monsieur le Maire had thought of everything, had thought of taking the weight of _this_ shame off his shoulders. “Of course.”  
  
“Javert … ” Madeleine laid a hand on his shoulder. “We do not need to do this. We forget all of this, pretend it never happened.”  
  
“It would be unjust not to apply the same rules to me as to the rest of the city. One might accuse you of playing favourites.”  
  
“Should I stay with you then - at least - to make sure nothing happens?”  
  
He knew what the mayor implied. Of course he did. The worst was neither the mockery nor the guffaw, but rather the … bodily assaults. Tomatoes being thrown - or rocks -, circulatory breakdowns from the heat of the afternoon sun. And of course quick and nimble fingers that slid underneath the skirts of young women, touching and caressing, tickling and teasing them in places Javert did not even even dare to think of. (He had seen this in Toulon, too, even though there had neither been young women nor _gentle_ fingers. Oh yes, Javert had seen and experienced, and dreamed of it and repressed all memories altogether.) “There is no reason for Monsieur to neglect his more important duties. I -” Deserve it all. Need it all. “- can handle everything.”  
  
He had no idea how wrong he was.  
  
-  
  
For now, there was silence all around him, nothing to be heard except for the sound of his own breathing. He knew it would not stay like this for much longer, knew the sun had to rise eventually, knew that the people of Montreuil had to leave their homes - and he knew that they would have to come across him and his awkward situation.  
  
The early birds began to sing their matutinal songs. Somewhere nearby a window shutter rattled. Javert flinched. So it began …  
  
Every time he heard advancing steps, he squirmed in his bonds, clenching and unclenching his fists. He was anticipating an attack or scornful laughter or … anything at all, and every minute that passed without him being humiliated became some kind of cruel torture which only made him even more anxious. He shifted his weight from one knee to the other, swallowed involuntarily, even though his mouth was dry.  
  
A child yelled his name. His head snapped up and he turned it left and right, trying to locate the direction the sound came from, trying to find out from where the first stone would be thrown.  
  
A group of women laughed, and he bit down on his lower lip, felt his face flush crimson red. He could see them in front of his eyes, could see them whisper about him, point at him, could imagine the ridicule in their eyes and words. What might they believe to be the cause for this situation? Would they think that he had tripped, had captured himself without meaning to - as if he were nothing more than a criminal?  
  
No. They wouldn’t. The blindfold was solid proof that this was no accident. The blindfold would show them that he was here for a reason.  
  
Maybe they might believe that someone else was to blame. A criminal maybe, who had forced the poor inspector to kneel down for him - and oh, the thought of being forced to his knees unwillingly made him experience a rush of feelings that were more than just unhelpful in his current situation -, who had forced him to degrade himself like this.  
  
But then, wouldn’t he ask for help? Would it not be self-evident for him to remind the good people of his rank, so that they might release him at once?  
  
He did not ask anybody for help, however.  
  
No. The people would surely understand what was happening, would identify him as a sinner who had to make amends for his misdeeds. Would they wonder what he had done wrong, which law he had broken, why he deserved to kneel here in the cold?  
  
Laughter. Again and again. Shouting children, words he was not able to understand, because his own blood was rushing in his ears, deafening every other sound. He was shaking. Time seemed to stand still, and he knew not whether five minutes or five hours had passed, knew not why _nobody did anything_. The wait made him mad, made him imagine what might happen to him, made him think of every way they could torture him - _fingers, hands, around his throat, in his hair, beatings, pain, no please, please what, please anything just_ -  
  
Ice-cold water splashed over him.  
  
He gasped for air, his eyes widening underneath the blindfold. He felt the wetness run over his face, over his neck, creeping into his uniform that was already clinging to his body. Everything around him was silent, a shocked silence, because someone finally crossed this special border, because someone finally laid a hand on him. A choked sound escaped his lips, half surprise, half _gratitude_ , because the wait was finally, _finally_ over.  
  
A hand fisted in his short-cropped hair and _pulled_ , yanking his head back. His heart was beating loudly, so loudly he was sure the stranger, too, could hear it, and he was torn between pain and fear when he realized that now everyone could see his face, that he was no longer halfway hidden in the shadows. Another hand curled around his throat without choking him, without hurting him at all. It just lay there, a friendly reminder that he should better not try to defend himself in any way, and when he swallowed, he felt the steady pressure of a thumb against his Adam’s apple.  
  
The murmuring of the people around him seemed like it was coming from further away than he’d expected. He wasn’t able to understand the words themselves, but that did not matter at all. He was still sure that he knew what they were saying about him, thinking about him.  
  
The hand on his throat disappeared, and he already wanted to breathe out in relief. He never got the chance, though, for the same hand clenched around his jaw, the nails digging into tender flesh, and this time, yes, this time he gasped in pain. This seemed to have been what the stranger aimed for, because just a heartbeat later, he shoved two fingers - big and calloused and rougher than a woman could ever be - in Javert’s mouth, toyed with his tongue in a way that felt so embarrassingly _intimate_ that he could not help but shudder. To do these … these things to him! In public! Where everyone could see him become a laughingstock, where he- no, that was just not to be done, was not respectable behaviour at all!  
  
Whether it happened out of reflex or out of anger - or maybe disgust -, he didn’t know. He only knew that he bit down hard until the coppery taste of blood filled his mouth and senses and made him gag.  
  
The stranger - and Javert was now certain he was facing a man, for he let our a low growl - drew his hand back, only to slap Javert so hard it made his ears ring. He saw stars in front of his eyes underneath the blindfold. The man’s slow steps reached his ears as he was circled. He licked his dry lips, swallowed the taste of blood. His breath came in fast, audible gasps as he understood one emotion he had never expected to experience: He was scared. The question of ‘What is going to happen now?’ was gnawing at his mind. Javert remembered Toulon, remembered the guards’ amusement when they left the prisoners in the dark about what was going to happen to them. He remembered how they laughed and smirked when the convict squirmed and shivered, when they wanted to run but couldn’t, when they were at the guards’ mercy.  
  
What was going to happen now, he wondered. In his mind, he played through all the scenarios that he expected to happen, all the things he knew and had seen and experienced.  
  
They could relieve him of his uniform, strip him bare. Javert swallowed, the cracking sound of a whip already audible to his ears. He imagined every single time it would connect to his back - because he was sure they’d beat him again and again, harder and harder until the kiss of the whip would leave angry red marks at first, and then rip the flesh off his bones, make him scream and beg for mercy.  
  
They could strip him off his boots and socks, could beat his soles instead of his back; and when they’d let him go eventually, he would have to _crawl_ back to his apartment because, otherwise, every single step would bring unbearable pain to him.  
  
They could let their fingers glide over his naked soles until his breath hitched and he had to bite his lower lip bloody to suppress his laughter, his sobs, his _moans_ , they could torture him until he was begging for mercy out of entirely different reasons.  
  
They could use a knife and carve his sins into his skin - oh, and he had many sins, didn’t he? Every single cut would remind him of his shame forever.  
  
They could -  
  
He was brought back to reality when rough hands circled his waist and clever fingers started to unbutton his uniform. A surprised sound escaped his throat and he squirmed, trying to get away. To no avail, of course. He could not avoid that those hands slid underneath his jacket, underneath his dress shirt, and now he noticed that _this_ stranger seemed to be another one, for he was wearing thin leather gloves that felt cold on his skin, that made him shiver and reinforce his attempts to struggle.  
  
A strong, large body pressed against his back, covering his own, rendering him motionless. A clean-shaven cheek nuzzled against his own, and he felt the other man’s heat through the layers of his clothing. He swallowed audibly at the thought of whatever torture was going to follow next.  
  
“Don’t you dare!” he growled, trying to sound menacing to scare his tormentor away. Sadly, the result was more of a shaky moan, because gloved fingers brushed his nipples at just this moment. Of course, there was more to it than this small movement, this small touch that might almost be called coincidental. No, when the stranger became aware of Javert’s reaction, he chuckled lowly against Javert’s skin and resumed touching him _just there_ , toying with his nipples, taking them between his fingers.  
  
It should not arouse him, he knew that. It should not make him shudder, make him bite his lower lip to suppress needy, wanton sounds - or at least subdue them, they still escaped his throat anyway -, it should not make him squirm in his bonds. He should hate himself for his reactions, should feel nothing but disdain for himself, and on the one hand, he _did_ exactly this, but on the other hand … was not this what he had expected? To be left at the mercy of the not-so-good people of Montreuil, the mercy of those people that consisted to an extent of whores and thieves and people who simply hated Javert, him and everything the stood for, of people who thought it self-evident to drag him down on their level.  
  
And was this not what he was in reality? Was he not just like them? Worthless and despicable and unworthy to walk in the shadow of a man like Monsuier Madeleine (even though everyone was, for the blinding light that surrounded Madeleine cast an even longer shadow on everybody else)?  
  
Sharp teeth sank into his neck, snapped him out of his thoughts, and maybe - just maybe - he did not even try to hold back a moan this time. A woman laughed, and he felt his face flush. No lady should have to watch this display of his shame.  
  
The stranger’s hands wandered over his chest (his body seemed to burn everywhere they touched him), deeper and deeper, slid over his waistband where they opened the buttons as well, quickly, efficiently.  
  
Once more, Javert objected, once more, nobody listened (and the simple fact that his tormentor undermined his authority like this aroused him even more). A shameful kind of excitement rose in his guts, because right here, right now, it did not _matter_ who he was and what he was. Here, he was only a sinner like everybody else. The excitement, however, did not last long, as the stranger roughly shoved his trousers and underwear down. To his great relief, nobody laughed. Still, it made him think of later, of noon when his punishment was supposed to be over. What would Monsieur le Maire think if he saw him like this? Would he be disappointed with the people he cared for (oh, Javert would not be able to bear being the reason for Monsieur’s grief)? Would he be disappointed with Javert (which was, sadly, to be expected, because Javert _was_ a disappointment, was born as one, and the fact that his cock was twitching at the thought of Monsieur Madeleine having to see him like this, naked and unprotected and wanton as a whore waiting for her next customer confirmed his shame and humiliation)?  
  
Maybe … maybe something completely different would happen. Maybe, and oh, the thought made Javert groan, the mayor would understand what a low creature he was, not better than the beasts of Toulon, and would use him like one of them, like a trained dog whose head one would pat whenever he performed a spectacular little trick. Yes, it was very easy to use the protective darkness the blindfold provided to imagine Monsieur le Maire in the stranger’s place. It would be Madeleine who caressed his back, his belly, the small path of hair leading from his navel to -  
  
Laughter destroyed the illusion even better than the bucket of water had done.  
  
Javert flinched and grit his teeth as fingers stroked his arse. “Stop this at once!” he bellowed. “I’m not some kind of whore you can treat like this! I am the law and the law is not -“  
  
Whatever it was that wasn’t supposed to be done to the law, Javert did not manage to say it, for his cheeks were spread and hot breath tickled his entrance. No. Surely not. The man wouldn’t …  
  
A hot tongue found its way inside him, and all that Javert was able to notice anymore was the sound of his own ragged breathing and the embarrassing little whimper that tumbled over his lips.  
  
There simply was no way to deny the difference between fantasy and reality, between what one might imagine in every possible detail and whatever might truly happen. Whenever these shameful and sinful thoughts had come to haunt him in long and lonely nights, when he lay in the cold of his apartment, wrapped up in a blanket, when a heat that originated from the darkest parts of him overcame him, he often managed to to suppress it by sheer willpower or by trying to find something else to do. Sometimes, though, he had to admit to himself that he was a sinner and that he would never be anything else. It was in his blood.  
  
The thought always calmed him a little when he let his hand slide between his legs to cup his hardening flesh, to imagine all those things happen to him that he had seen in Toulon and prisons like it. His fantasies were always filled with cruelty and beatings and the kind of torture that was drenched in hatred - the torture in his fantasies was never gentle like the one he was experiencing now.  
  
But then, admittedly, his fantasies never were … this messy, either.  
  
The stranger was breathing against Javert’s skin, making him shiver and squirm every time anew. It was disgustingly _obscene_ how this wet, hot - oh God! - tongue teased his opening, tickling it, and even though Javert hated himself for it, he could not avoid those greedy, lewd sounds that were escaping his lips. He also could not avoid - even though he _tried_ \- spreading his legs a little wider, as much as was possible while being trapped in the prison of his own trousers that were still engulfing his legs.  
  
Gloved fingers held his arse in their grip, and the man behind him - “N-no, don’t!” - spread his hole with his thumbs. Javert gasped at the knowledge that the stranger was now able to look _so deep_ inside him. He felt helpless, exposed, and it shouldn’t be like this, it really should not, but it aroused him even further; his cock was hard and heavy between his legs, and he had to bite down onto his lower lip to suppress every needy sound, to prevent himself from begging, even though the pleas were already on the tip of his tongue.  
  
However hard he tried, though, when the tongue slid into him again, he whimpered, frightened by how desperate he sounded.  
  
And then, it was over - as quickly as it had begun. Behind him, he heard a dark and rumbling laugh and then withdrawing steps. He was left there, alone and lonely and dripping with need.  
  
His knees had begun to hurt, his hands were shaking uncontrollably in the cold - for even though the sun was shining and leisurely drying his clothes, it still was neither warm nor comfortable in any way - and his thoughts were reeling, spinning restlessly as he understood the whole complexity of his punishment: His rush actions had dirtied the mayor’s reputation, So it was only just for himself to be the one suffering from a ruined reputation, was it not? But that wasn’t all (of course not, for had it only been about ruining his name, Monsieur Madeleine could have invented a rumor. Anything. Anything at all. The people would have believed it. And even if Javert had tried to make the truth known, to destroy the lie, well, whom would the not-so-good people of Montreuil have believed? Their mayor, who had helped them achieve wealth and work, who they loved and respected, or the new, freshly promoted and not exactly likeable inspector?) With his report to Paris Javert had dared trying to have Madeleine’s body and soul at his disposal, had tried to seize control over his life.  
  
Well … and now it was Javert himself who had lost control over his own body, who was treated as an _object_ , as a _toy_ , a plaything for the people to use and abuse him.  
  
He was breathing fast, shivered and waited, waited and hoped - as much as he did not want to admit it - for something to happen once more, yearned to be touched, however fleetingly or roughly, he did not care at all, he only wished for someone to release him from his suffering.  
  
Behind closed eyes, he imagined the crowd, the curious onlookers, and instinctively, he spread his legs even further, hoping that - if he gave them a better view, put on a better _show_ \- someone might have mercy. A man maybe, whose large hand clasped around Javert’s cock, touching him roughly, bringing him to his climax as quickly as possible, only to go on, to tease him further, until it would be too much, too painful, until he would beg him to stop. He was sure he’d beg. He knew he’d moan and sob and _No more!_ and _Please!_ and _Mercy!_  
  
Maybe it wouldn’t be a man, though, but instead the small hands of a woman that would touch his body. A woman would not go straight for his cock, but first lightly caress his thighs, his flanks and back before she’d lay her hands around his shaft - her cheeks would flush with heat - to stroke him with her fingertips, up and down, spreading the first drops of pre-come on his whole length, until he could do no more than buck his hips and rut against her hand like a greedy dog.  
  
Or maybe - he hated himself for even having that thought - it would be a child that teased his sinful flesh with curious touches.  
  
He shook his head to dismiss the image, prayed for God to forgive him - and flinched when he heard slow and heavy steps. And even more: The clicking sound of a walking stick was audible as well. Only for a second, though, then the sound disappeared, and Javert waited, fearing the first strike, for he was sure he would be hurt, would be beaten, was sure the heavy wood would connect with his body, his back, would bring him pain and break his bones. What happened, however, was a little different. There was no pain, no beating. Instead, the stick slightly touched his flanks, his back, gliding down his spine and coming to rest on his arse. Javert took a shivering breath, tensing up visibly. Still, the walking stick only slid lower, slid - oh! - between his legs, pressing against his balls and cock. A whimper escaped his lips, a desperate, grateful sound, as he ground against it in a needy, frantic rhythm.  
  
It felt like stepping into paradise.  
  
He threw his head back, moaning shamelessly, had never felt so _close_ , so short of salvation - only to be cast into the deepest darkness as the walking stick disappeared (later, he’d deny it, but a despaired “No!” escaped his throat).  
  
Someone chuckled into his ear, before a large hand grasped his hair once more to yank his head back, and the same polished wood on which he had only just moments ago tried to satisfy his cravings was pressed against his lips.  
  
Javert swallowed audibly and hesitantly opened his mouth, nudging the the stick with the tip of his tongue. He could taste himself. Well, if that wasn’t the last proof that all these things were real and not simply happening in his mind, in fantasies born from his greed and desire for intimacy and touches, for all that Monsieur Madeleine would never want to give him, however generous he bestowed Javert with praise and smiles.  
  
He cleaned the walking stick just like he’d clean the man’s hand if it had brought him to orgasm, just like he’d clean the man’s cock if he had fucked Javert’s mouth and throat. The hand let go of him, and he lowered his head with a small sigh. Slowly, he licked his lips, his own taste still lingering on the tip of his tongue. He listened attentively to the sounds around him, to the steps the stranger took. He circled Javert like a predator would circle its prey - with the small difference that _this_ prey would love to be devoured.  
  
His cheeks were spread, and he screwed his eyes shut underneath the blindfold, sending a silent prayer to the Heavens. And then, he moaned hoarsely when two wet fingers slid inside him.  
  
He bucked his hips impatiently, tried to lure the fingers deeper. But to no avail. The man’s other hand held him in an iron grip that made every movement impossible. Javert whined. He was so close, _so close_ to his climax and still so far away.  
  
Lazily, the fingers moved, stroking his insides without pressing into him to the knuckle, without touching him where he needed it.  
  
“M-monsieur,” Javert rasped, feeling horrified when the fingers stopped their movements at all. “Monsieur, please.” _Please take me, please fuck me, make me scream, oh God, please!_ Nothing happened. Javert took a shaky breath. “Don’t force me to say it.”  
  
But then, this was the whole point, was it not? To degrade Javert, to humiliate him. And what would be better than Javert himself doing the humiliation? Words tumbled over his lips, hastily and breathlessly, he promised to do anything, anything at all, just … “Lord in Heaven, please fuck me!”  
  
His cheeks burned with shame at that word and he bit down onto his lower lip, but, thankfully, it sufficed, for the man finally fucked him in earnest, hitting this little spot so deep inside him with every stroke of his fingers, making Javert see white dots in front of his closed eyes (and if he were to be poetic right now, he’d say those were the stars he had prayed to just moments ago). His body felt hot as hellfire, and when the man reached around to lay a hand on his aching cock, he did not even last another second. He came with a strangled groan and went limp in his bonds.  
  
And then, he started to cry. Because it was finally over. Because he was ashamed of himself. Because he had loved this and he wanted it again. Because his mind and soul and body were fighting about his conflicted feelings, and now he did not know what to do anymore. How could he face the citizens ever again? How could he face Monsieur Madeleine?  
  
„Javert,“ a soft voice above him called, and Javert flinched. So much for thinking of the devil. „Javert, it is over,“ the mayor said, his large hands stroking Javerts hair and back reassuringly. The goddamn man, the saint, the _bastard_ even put Javert’s clothes back on, while Javert himself could only sob in shame.  
  
„It is over,“ Monsieur Madeleine said again.  
  
The blindfold came loose.  
  
And when Javert could see again, when the light did not burn his eyes any more, like the light of Heaven would burn a sinner, his world turned upside down.  
  
-  
  
There was no crowd. There was no marketplace. There was only the backyard of the mayor’s house with its high walls all around him to shield him from view and harm. Javert looked around, eyes wide in disbelief and panic. If he really was shielded from any random bystander’s eyes, then the one who must have done all these things to him, the one who must have subjected him to this torture was …  
  
His eyes found the kind and calm face of Monsieur Madeleine, and he snarled, squirming in his bonds, only managing to rub the tender skin of his wrists raw - like a convict would do when he felt the cold weight of the iron shackles close around his wrists for the first time. “Open this at once!”  
  
“Javert … “  
  
“I told you to open this thing!” He was almost screaming now, his voice bordering on hysteria. There was nothing more he wanted to do right now than to run and hide and maybe strangle the mayor beforehand.  
  
“Will you listen to me, then?”  
  
“I don’t _want_ to! With all due respect, Monsieur le Maire, right now I only want to kick your arse!”  
  
Madeleine had the nerve to chuckle. “I suppose I deserve that. After all, I have done worse to _your_ arse and -“  
  
“Will you just let me out, in God’s name?” Hysterical. Yes, he was definitely being hysterical. Otherwise, he would never have _dared_ to snap at the mayor. Chide him, yes. Argue with him, of course. But snap and yell and snarl and bare his teeth like a caged animal? No. Never.  
  
disappointment crossed Madeleine’s features (and it made Javert’s chest hurt), but he did as Javert asked - ordered - him to, producing a small key out of a pocket of his coat, and then bending down to unlock the pillory.  
  
As soon as he could, Javert jerked back and rose to his feet, took a staggering step backward - only for his hurting legs to give out under him. Strong arms wrapped around his waist to hold him upright, and as much as Javert struggled, Madeleine held him tightly.  
  
“Let us go inside. My housekeeper is not here today. Nobody has seen you. And nobody will.”  
  
 _You saw me_ , he thought, but asked instead: “Why did you do this to me?”  
  
“Javert. Inside. I want you to sit down and relax your legs.”  
  
If the situation weren’t this sad, this crazy, this _strange_ , Javert would have wanted to laugh. Now, Madeleine cared about his well-being. Now. Not some hours ago when he had been on his hands and knees, begging to be hurt and punished. He still laughed, dryly and humourlessly, as he leaned on the mayor to make his way into Madeleine’s fine home, where he _did_ collapse in the nearest armchair, burying his face in his hands.  
  
Madeleine poured him a glass of wine. He downed it in one big gulp and wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand.  
  
“Can you understand why I did what I had to?”  
  
Javert scoffed. “You made me lose my face.”  
  
“But only in front of me.”  
  
“Is this not bad enough?” he snarled.  
  
“You wanted me to humiliate you _in front of the whole town_.”  
  
“So what? You mean, you were being _kind_ to me? You made me -” _Beg for it. Want it like a whore._ “You made me yield.”  
  
“If I had not, if I had simply chained you somewhere without anything happening, would you have accepted it as enough? As a fitting punishment? We both know you wouldn’t. have”  
  
 _Why do you know me so well?_  
  
“You would have come to me, day after day, begging me for pain and punishment. And I would not been able to grant your wish.”  
  
“Oh? It appears you had no problem with … ” He paused and shrugged his shoulders. “With what you did out there.”  
  
“I did what I had to do. But not what you wanted me to.”  
  
“So you’re calling this a … a compromise?”  
  
“In a way.”  
  
“In a way,” he repeated quietly, didn’t quite manage to suppress a smile. The whole situation was insane. But then, the both of them were not quite sane, either, were they? The inspector who yearned for the kind of justice only God himself could grant, and the mayor who took God’s mercy, but not his justice in his hands. He eyed Madeleine hesitantly. Maybe he understood now, understood what mercy he had received. He gave a sigh and stretched out his legs, only to hiss in pain at the ache that surged through him.  
  
“Let me, Javert,” Madeleine said, kneeling down in front of him - the sight made Javert blush, his cheeks flaming and his thoughts becoming entirely impure; no wonder, after what had happened earlier.  
  
“Monsieur,” he breathed when the mayor’s hands - hands he knew could be gentle and cruel alike - caressed his legs, when he dug his thumbs into the backs of Javert’s knees to shoo the pain away. He licked his lips. “Is this kindness, too?”  
  
“It is justice.”  
  
This time, Javert smiled openly, relaxing into the soft and expert touches. “Monsieur le Maire,” he began slowly, “if I may ask: Where did you get the pillory from?”  
  
“Why, from the marketplace, of course.”  
  
“You _stole_ the pillory?”  
  
“I _borrowed_ it. If you’d like, you may return it with me later. If you do not want to, well … then see it as the final task of your punishment.”  
  
Madeleine laughed at his own words.  
  
And after the initial shock, Javert joined him.


End file.
